A Tale Of Two Drifters
by Duzzly
Summary: Rick's a nosy spy and Stan a greedy conman. Both are reckless criminals. After Stan accidentally saves Rick's life, they decide to hit the road together.
1. Stan & Rick

I'm going to die. I'm in the trunk of a car and I'm going to die. I was a fool and they're going to murder me.

These were Rick's thoughts as he struggled against the zip ties binding him, plastic painfully digging into his skin as he tried to get himself free. Oh, he didn't have much hope of succeeding, but that wasn't gonna stop him from trying anyway. His drive and recklessness were what got him in this situation in the first place. If only it could get him out of it as well...

The car came to a stop, the low rumble of the engine still running. Opening and closing of doors. Footsteps of people getting off. Muffles of distant conversations. Rick stopped his struggles, but it was too far away to hear any distinct words. He wondered if they were discussing how they'll get rid of him. Will torture be involved or would they have the mercy of a quick death? No time to mope more about it as the doors opened again and the car left in a a hurry. No matter how it was going to happen, his end was soon. Still, he hadn't abandoned his struggle, making banging against the tight walls around him into an art form.

After what felt like hours, the car stopped again. As the engine died down, Rick froze, listening. Door opened. Footsteps shifting around. Rattling a of metal. Silence. And then the trunk opened.

It was obvious that the man looking back at Rick wasn't expecting him in here, as after surprise and confusion, his face finally settled on panic.

"Oh shit."

Rick motioned with his bond hands to his taped up mouth which the man removed in a quick gesture.

"Ouch!"  
"Who the fuck?"  
"Who the fuck yourself."  
"What?"  
"Who are you?"  
"Who are _you_?"  
"I'm Rick, and if you ask, I'm guessing you don't want me killed"  
"No of course not wh- OK, wait."

He grabbed a pair of heavy pliers of a tool bench and cut through the zip ties around Rick's wrists and ankles.

"Thanks, bud."  
"Get out of here," he grabbed his arm, pulling him out of the trunk, "I've got a buyer coming soon."  
"I have no idea what's going on but sur-"

Before he could even finish his sentence, a knock on the door, and a tall woman came in without waiting for clearance.

"Hey Bass."  
"Stan." She pointed at Rick. "Who's this punk?"  
"Trent. Old friend. Helped me crack this baby."  
"Friend? Didn't know you had any."  
"Yeah, me neither," Rick snapped back, glaring at his "friend".  
Bass laughed heartily, "Good one! Anyway... Lincoln Mark VII? Nice catch. But not what I asked for."  
"I get what I can find."  
"I know, I know. Ugh. I'll let you know if I find someone insterested."  
"I'm counting on it. You know where to find me."  
Her face scrunched up as she gave a last look inside, "And next time... get one with no blood on the seats."  
"Anything for my clientele."

Once she had left, Rick turned to this "Stan" guy, in disbelief, "Trent?"  
"Someone wants you dead, aight? Not taking any chances."  
"Fair. But I still have questions. About, like, what the fuck happ- did you really steal this car?"  
"Aight, yeah, listen... I was working on a Mercedes when _this_ beauty," he waved at the Lincoln, "parked up right next to me, and these idiots left the engine running! I couldn't pass an opportunity like that. So I sneaked up and drove off with it. Right under their noses! Ha! A joke!"  
"You stole... a car from the Gilmaires."  
"Whom now?"  
"The local gang?"  
"Haven't been here long."  
He sighed, "Well, I'm gonna skip town. If you're smart you'll do the same. Cause they're defo tracking this down."  
"Eh, don't have enough for this month's rent anyway... Want a ride?"  
"What's the catch?"  
"No catch. Just gotta grab a couple things upstairs, then we're on the road."

Rick didn't have any objections, and he could use a ride. With Stan's apartment over the garage, it took at most ten minutes for him to gather a duffel bag that he threw into his convertible.

And just like that, they were on the road.


	2. First Night

In their hurry to leave, the duo hadn't picked a destination. Stan suggested to ride east until nighttime and crash at the first motel. The further away, the better. Rick agreed. He also offered to pass by Rick's apartment but that was a hard no; if there was one place the Gilmaires would look first, it'd be here. No reason to risk getting caught when their goal was to get the heck out of here.

Old funk on the radio. Rick adjusted the rearview mirror. Black eye, swollen lip, bleeding brow. He was grateful this Bass gal didn't point out his beat up face. Stan hadn't either. Yet.

"How's your face?"  
"I'll live."

He found an old tissue at the bottom of his pocket and used it to clean his brow. The drive had been dishearteningly quiet until now. After all, they were two strangers partnered up by circumstances. Rick glanced at his new partner in crime. He couldn't but notice their similarities; strong jaw and stubble. Brown hair and brown eyes; though Stan's were of a darker shade, and his hair longer. His nose was softer than Rick's, and not broken by one too many punches. Pretty handsome, if he was to be honest.

"So, what's your story?"

Rick didn't answer right away, stare lost in the distance. He took a deep breath and sighed before answering.

"Heard things I shouldn't have and got caught. The Gilmaires don't take kindly to spies."  
"I hear ya."  
"Without your intervention, I'd be _dead_ by now." An unpleasant thought. "I don't think I've properly thanked you for saving my life. So, uh, thank you."  
"Don't mention it," he shrugged, "I was just stealing a car y'know."  
"Two crimes cancel each other out, right?" Rick snickered.  
"Yep! I'm sure that's how the law works!"

Stan changed the radio channel to some 60s rock.

"What about you?" Rick asked back. "Skipped town without a second thought."  
"Eh... I've dealt with gangs in the past. Not a pleasant experience."  
"Yeah, no shit."  
"Was hoping for a quiet gig here. Turns out it was a pain."  
"A quiet gig _stealing cars_?"  
"I was just selling overpriced clunkers at first."  
"And the next step is to steal expensive ones?"  
"You're pretty ungrateful considering my stealing saved your ass."  
"I'm just trying to follow your line of logic, here."

Stan simply shrugged off the question.

"So... you're not just a thief, you're a conman too."  
"Says the snitch."  
"Hey! I'm not a snitch, I'm a _spy_."  
Snort, "Who are you spying for?"  
"Whoever pays best," he snickered.  
"Look where _that_ led you."  
"Could say the same to you."  
"Touché."

They spent the rest of the ride in silence. Four long hours of introspection and 60s rock 'n' roll. An endless winding road lined with pine trees and ad signs, growing more and more unnerving as the sun hid behind the mountains.

With the cover of night, neither of them knew exactly where they ended up stopping, except that it was the parking lot of a motel dubiously called "Roamers' Break". Next to it, a crummy diner with a half burned-out neon sign that only spelled "AND DI E". Charming.

"Wanna grab a bite? I'm starving," Rick asked, a foggy breath escaping his lips. Grumpy, he pulled his trenchcoat close, while Stan grabbed a jacket from the backseat for himself.  
"I'd rather check-in first. Just to be sure we've got enough money for everything."

Rick nodded and they entered the lobby. The clerk at the reception barely acknowledged their presence, simply pointing at the price list overhead, eyes still stuck on their magazine.

"How much you've got?" Rick whispered.  
"Ehhh... About $150."  
"I've got even less..."  
"Single room?"  
"Single room."  
Stan addressed the clerk directly, "One room, double bed."  
"Two singles," Rick corrected.

The clerk rolled their eyes, and continued their reading.

Stan took Rick aside, "With a double bed we're saving 10 bucks!"  
"Yeah ok but I like me my privacy," Rick fished for his wallet, and pulled out a ten.  
"Fine," he took the bill, "but we're still splitting the rest of the cost."  
"Sure, sure, whatever."  
Stan slid back to the clerk, "One room, two single beds it is."  
"I need names."  
"Steve Peddlington."  
"And Benjamin Dover." Stan elbowed him.  
"Room 4," the clerk handed them a key that Stan took after they both paid their half.

The deed down, they next headed to the ominously named diner for sustenance.

"Welcome to Dandy Diner, please don't mind the sign!"  
"If we're here obviously we didn't," Stan japed. Rick elbowed him.

The hostess forced a serviceable smile and led them to a table. Looking over the menu, discussion of their tight budget resurfaced.

"$143 and change here," Stan counted.  
"I've got uhhh _30, 40..._ $60.45 left."  
"Oof... Not very lucrative being a snitch, is it?"  
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but your little car business wasn't doing so jolly either."  
"Aight, 1-1."

Rick ordered an omelet and tap water, which garnered Stan's mockery as he ordered his steak, french fries, and beer. Still, neither of them had forgotten the awkwardness of their situation, and diner was quiet.

"Any ideas on what you plan to do next?" tentatively asked Rick.  
"Beside surviving?"  
"I meant more concretely..."  
Stan grumbled, "Drive to the next town, find a place to crash and a way to make some bucks, what else is there to do?"  
" 'suppose you're right."  
"I am right. It's just a pity it's so damn hard to make a living in this country."  
"Ever tried doing some honest good work?"  
"Pscht!"  
"Yeah yeah, _look who's talking_ and all that, I know. Ok. Alright. Here's another question," he leaned in, "Ideally, where would you like to crash?"  
Stan hesitated for a second, "You first, _snitch_."  
"Alright, that's fair," he laid back in his seat, hands behind his head, "I guess I'd return to East Point but ehh..."  
"That where you come from?"  
"Yup..."  
"How is it?"  
He sighed, "A derelict seaside city ruled by corporations with a crumbling police force," a smile to himself, "Well, maybe it got better since then."  
"What keeps you away?"  
"Long story short people want me dead."  
"I see you know how to make friends."  
"What can I say!" he forced a laugh, "I'm just that kinda guy. Ok. Your turn."

Stan jammed a mouthful of fries up his trap to give him some time to think. Rick stared him down the whole time he chewed on it.

"New Jersey," he lied.  
Rick cocked an eyebrow, "Hometown?"  
"Yeah... but I can't go back. Things are... complicated with my family."

Rick waited for him to continue, and when he didn't, simply nodded in understanding.

Neither of them added anything for a long moment, to the point it became obscene to even think about speaking up, as if they'd decided of a silent agreement that the topic was closed. They left the diner not soon after and settled in their room for the night. Both of them, slightly embarrassed, stayed in their briefs and tank tops.

"Good night Stan," Rick finally said, turning the lights off.  
"G'night Rick."


End file.
